My Date With a Sexual Harasser Who Lived in His Mom's Basement

What you are about to read are horrifying tales of love gone wrong just in time for Valentine's Day. Welcome to Dating Horror Story Week on The Stir ...

We met on the bike path while I was roller blading and he was biking. He smiled at me and he was cute, so I stopped for a while and chatted. I was 19 at the time and somewhat new to "dating" and he went to Cornell! What could go wrong?

It turns out: A lot. I forget his name, so for our current purposes, I will call him Tom. He was 10 years older than me, which I thought gave me street cred and didn't make him creepy at all. Ah, how dumb we are when we are young, no?

Anyway, he asked me to dinner a couple days later, and since he seemed nice enough, I accepted, handed him my number, and agreed to meet him at a local Mexican place. Little did I know, this date was about to go very wrong.

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When I arrived at the appointed time (on time, I might add), he had already ordered three margaritas (for himself) and one for me (I wasn't 21). Was he expecting two more people? No. "I just like to get a head start," he told me. He had also biked to the date (he biked everywhere because he had "lost his license to a mistaken DUI") and had sweat rings under his arms and hands that were dripping wetness that was either from the long, hot bike ride or the condensation from the frozen drinks.

Five minutes later, I was listening to Tom's tirade against Democrats, liberals, feminists, and sexual harassment lawsuits. At 29, he was still living at home -- "I've got a tricked out basement pad, though, so I can totally still bone."

Yes, he was LITERALLY the guy at 30 who still lives in his parents' basement. Um, where was the sweet, sexy guy I met on the bike path? Was I on the wrong date? It got worse. He was unemployed.

When I inquired as to why an Ivy League educated 29-year-old was living in his parents' basement with no job prospects, I got quite the story: "Damn feminists," he explained.

Come again?

It turns out, the feminists at his job hadn't taken kindly to his jokes about putting pubic hair in their pizza and wanting to rub their boobs.

With 13 years of experience, I now know this was the point in the date when I should have stood up and walked out. But at 19, I was naive and willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. "I mean, since when is a little JOKE sexual harassment?" he asked.

Since when, indeed.

I knew I was never going on a second date with this guy, but I wasn't yet aware of how to exit a horrible date, so I sat there listening to him. Then the check came. He grabbed it. I brought my wallet out because it's always polite to offer. He said that he had it and then he pulled my hands toward him. "But you will have to kiss me," he said.

Assuming he was joking, I laughed. He offered to walk me to the subway.

At the subway, he proceeded to pull me into a bear hug and try to plant a kiss on my lips. I wriggled away. "Hey!" he said. "I paid for your food!" I finally escaped him without making too much of a scene and jumped on the subway. I was relieved to get away from him and pretty clear on why the "feminists" had wanted him fired.

Two days later he called me to ask me out again. I told him I got back together with my boyfriend and he was big. And mean. And strong. "He's the really jealous kind," I explained.

Luckily I never heard from him again, but I imagine he is still out there somewhere, living in a basement, pedaling on the bike path, and assuming $29.99 meals buy you sex. Terrifying.